


Our Gleams of Sunshine

by Violarm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 4 + 1 things, Age Difference, Deputy Derek Hale, Deputy Jordan Parrish, Derek Hale & Jordan Parrish Friendship, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Jordan Parrish & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29840787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violarm/pseuds/Violarm
Summary: Derek and Jordan are both head-over-heels for a Stilinski. Just because it's a different Stilinski doesn't make it any easier. Or maybe it does, Jordan doesn't know.Alternatively: Derek and Jordan being bros and helping each other get some--or rather, one getting getting some disproportionately to the other. Jordan's working on it.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Jordan Parrish/Sheriff Stilinski
Comments: 14
Kudos: 152





	Our Gleams of Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Un beta'd. Or unbeta'ed. Or however you spell it.

Where Parrish sat at his desk in the station, the sunlight streamed perfectly through the overhead window, filtered around the bars against the glass and landing directly on top of the pile of files perpetually perched near the edge of his desk. It created a warm sphere of his own; and in the mornings when he was on shift, he would bask in the heat and light and sip at his coffee, typing diligently at his ancient keyboard.

It was no secret he had the best spot in the whole station, apart from perhaps the Sheriff. The Sheriff had his office, with its blinds, and privacy, and own little mini-fridge—it was probably supposed to be a clandestine myth, like a great legacy of the police station that the Sheriff had a cavern of treasures behind the transparent door, except he’d seen it accidently one day when he’d dropped off a stack of paperwork on the Sheriff’s desk and turned at just the right angle. He hadn’t opened the fridge. That would’ve been taking it too far, and besides—who would’ve believed him?

So, the Sheriff’s office was arguably better than the radius of his little desk-space, which was why one afternoon when he heard familiar footsteps approaching, it was so shocking.

He looked up. “Sir?”

The corner of the Sheriff’s mouth did its thing where it twisted slightly. The thing that was liable for causing him a heart attack. “Your break’s in a couple minutes, isn’t it, deputy? Fancy keeping me company? There’s that new diner not far from here.”

The diner had been open for several months, but he wasn’t going to point that out; not with what he’d just been promised.

“Sure, sir. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be free.”

The Sheriff—unaware of the current mental battle his employee was engaging in internally—nodded and left. Even the sunlight that was streaming in prettily didn’t do much to shadow the extreme colour of his face as he watched the fine-tuned motion of his boss’ body as he moved across the station. It was at once vulnerable and intimate. Anyone who bothered to glance over in his direction would’ve been treated to an exhibit on heart palpitations, framed neatly by a backdrop of sunlight. Perhaps his desk’s position was a curse: he couldn’t hide anything.

“You ordered the banana?” he asked, incredulously. As if the concept of his boss acting remotely human-like was impossible. But it wasn’t that; _banana milkshakes were awful._ “Out of all the options you ordered banana.”

The Sheriff sighed. Instantly, he guessed Stiles was constantly ragging him about that. The beaten down look was too perfected to be a one-off. “I _like_ the banana. Why is that always such a problem?”

So, he was right about the constant ragging.

“I never said it was a problem, just—” he took a gulp of his juice— “well, it’s hardly normal behaviour, is it—choosing banana over chocolate or vanilla. But I’m not saying you _can’t_ like it. If you like it, you like it, sir. Really, maybe it’s my fault for—for, uh, deciding chocolate is the normal. It’s like heteronormativity, but for milkshakes. Shakenormat—”

The Sheriff was simply observing him. There was a smile playing about the edges of his mouth and if there was a steady beam of sunshine it would’ve gone into hiding, too embarrassed to be competing with that little twist of his lips.

“We could forget I said any of that,” he suggested, when floor wasn’t, in fact, looking like it was about to swallow him up any time soon.

The Sheriff chuckled and shook his head. “You’ve just given me ammunition in a war I was currently fighting weapon-less. Shakenormativity, I like it.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I still maintain banana is gross, though.” His eyes widened. “Not that that is any of my business. I have no right to be so opinionated on _your_ dietary decisions, I’m drinking apple juice, for Pete’s sake. C’mon, say something mean about my juice.”

“I like apple juice,” said the Sheriff, somewhat bewildered. “And I used to be allergic to the colourant in all the other milkshakes, so I learnt to drink banana.”

“So, you don’t actually like banana?”

The Sheriff fixed him with an amused look over the menu. “I thought I didn’t, at first. Then I realised, after drinking it for a couple years, that it was just as good as…what was it?”

“Chocolate,” he supplied.

It didn’t feel like they were talking about milkshakes anymore.

“That it was as good as chocolate.” His eyes were twinkling brightly, and it should come with a warning—his eyes—because the whole scene was enough to be blinding.

Their food arrived, and he had even more of reason to hate himself because he remembered practically _telling_ the Sheriff what to order. Maybe he should have allowed himself to be blinded. At least then he wouldn’t have to see the mess he made every time he opened his mouth.

“I’ve never had this before,” the Sheriff commented, smiling softly. “It’s nice.”

It was a caesar salad, and Parrish was a little confused, but not enough to point it out. He just nodded and returned the smile, hoping it wasn’t as bright as it felt.

The thing with colleagues sharing lunchbreaks was that there came a point in the conversation where either party wasn’t entirely sure whether to tip it over into the personal, to make the jump and risk falling, but ultimately wanting to fly.

“Thank you for joining me,” the Sheriff said, after they’d finished and were nearing the station. “Stiles usually accompanies me on my lunch breaks, but he shouldn’t have to everyday. I keep telling him he should spend his break with his friends. He’ll be busy with college soon enough again.”

He had to bite his tongue lest he say something stupid, like promising to spend _every_ lunch break with him. Didn’t change the fact that it was true.

“It was my pleasure,” he replied, a little too honestly, a little too breathlessly. But they hadn’t scaled the iceberg over into the intimate; it wasn’t appropriate, wasn’t welcomed. Coughing a few times worked to dispel whatever had been brewing—it was difficult to discern whether that be internal or external—and by the time the station’s doors were opening, he was wearing a perfectly normal, exceptionally appropriate expression. It was still too bright—but only a tad—so he fumbled privately to his desk. The space there, though hardly a deficit of sunshine, felt strangely bereft of something and exceedingly plentiful in shadows.

“What, Derek?” He said, trying to hold the phone to his ear and steer the shopping cart in front of him. “Can you speak a little louder—it’s not like talking face-to-face, you have to raise your voice to be understood.”

The voice on the other end promised many, unrepeatable things—mainly concerning claws and teeth and throats.

“I’m not going to talk to you if you’re going to insult me.” He narrowly avoided hitting a middle-aged woman and he winced, smiling apologetically. “No, I still can’t hear you.”

He turned the corner into the produce aisle. This was always the busiest section of the store and he needed both hands on the cart. He debated hanging up on Derek.

“Listen, I’m kinda in the middle of something, can I call you back in a few m—” he pulled the phone away from his ear. Remembered that the growling wasn’t a standard part of general life, and hastily brought the phone closer to muffle the sound. “Can you not do th—okay, okay. I’m listening.”

When he reached over to pluck a punnet of strawberries his face did a complicated twist.

After placing two cucumbers in the cart, he frowned into the middle-distance.

In-between hunting for the potatoes and ending up with carrots, he bit his lip and paused for a moment.

“I don’t understand—you think, what?”

Derek was probably doing something with his eyebrows on the other end of the line.

“It was only for half an hour—forty minutes tops, if you count travelling there and back. No, it’s not every day—how could it? I spend breaks with _you_. Well, I’m not saying I’d rather spend time with hi—” he glared at the ground. There was a stray lettuce leaf stuck to one of the cart’s wheels. “You want me to spend less time with you?”

The bright lights of the supermarket were streaming down like the arctic. It was white and blinding and where there weren’t polar bears there were large rows of fridges that let out icy gasps of air. It certainly felt like the arctic, if the arctic was suddenly overrun with Beacon Hills’ middle-aged population.

“Derek, can we hurry this up?” His teeth chattered. “I’m parked right in front of a fridge.” And was therefore getting side-eyed by frazzled parents being trailed by whining children.

Derek said something and his face cleared. Finally.

“You want me to distract the Sheriff?” There was a note of incredulous horror in his voice. “Our boss, the Sheriff. Okay, just because you’re in a pack doesn’t mean normal social authority doesn’t apply to you. He’s still your boss, so can you see why I can’t do that?”

He then said something along the lines of ‘do you want me to lose my job’ and ‘that is a terrible idea’ which—for all his apparent mumbling—Derek seemed unable to satisfactorily answer.

“I will be found out! And I don’t want him to look at me like—you know how—when he does so.” He pulled his phone away from his ear, mouth dropping open. “ _Screw my courage to the sticking pla_ —did you just quote _Macbeth_ at me??”

By the time he’d managed to finish shopping, ring the groceries up, and escape into the carpark, he was still on the phone to Derek.

“Okay, listen to me carefully. I don’t care _how_ friendly you will be in return—you should be doing that _anyway_ , and no, you will not fill in for me on half my shifts—I _like_ my job. Just. If I happen to be able to spend time with him, I will. It’ll happen organically—I’m not going to actively distract him. Do with that what you will.”

That being said, he wished Derek a rather perfunctory goodbye. He needed both hands to load the trunk.

If he was slightly less morally uptight, he may have considered it. But this was the Sheriff. And he wouldn’t ever use the Sheriff like that. The thought of never receiving one of those smiles again was too awful to bear thinking about.

Then he realised he was just standing in the carpark beside his open trunk, staring into space. Get a grip Jordan, he thought, then eventually began unloading his groceries.

~*~

In all fairness, it wasn’t Derek’s fault that they were chained to desk duty. The rational part of his brain reminded him of that. But it still completely and utterly stank.

He settled for glaring at the back of his head.

It was a Friday night and instead of being out—even just sat in a squad car would be preferable—they were typing away miserably at the department issued computers. He didn’t even have his little ray of sunlight to bask in because, again, it was _Friday night_.

“I can feel you looking at me,” Derek growled, and that was a rather fractured break of the silence. “Stop it. You were the one who switched off your radio. Don’t think you can blame me.”

Parrish paused with his fingers on the keys of his keyboard. “Why do you think I switched it off in the first place, Mister Growly Glowy-Eyes? When you’re in uniform you’re a deputy first, werewolf second. Deputies don’t whip out fangs when they’re on duty.”

He was growled at again.

“It’s a reflex,” Derek argued. “And I was trying to protect you—” Apparently, he hastily rethought that last comment, as he shut his mouth instantly.

Parrish didn’t pull him up on it, felt like Derek had realised it was kind of a stupid thing to say. Sentimental, but stupid.

There weren’t any other deputies in the station apart from them, and the Sheriff in his office. That was the only reason they even dared broach the subject.

He leaned forward in his chair, over his desk, and whispered, “Did you forget you were just asking me for a favour last week? Because I sure haven’t.”

Derek turned around then. “Never thought you’d be the type to cast that die when it came to it, Parrish. And you _refused_.”

“I didn’t!” It was hard to sound affronted and remain quiet. “Just because you want alone time with St—”

He was directed glowing eyes, and hastily re-checked the rest of his sentence. “—just because you need help getting some doesn’t mean I am willing to throw—” a meaningful nod to the office across the building— “under the bus.”

It was almost comical, how Derek visibly forced his voice to a whisper. “It’s obvious you don’t at all mind the ‘spending time with him’ part.”

“Since you started talking,” he whispered back, “you’ve gotten awfully chatty. Fine. I’ll tell you when we share lunch again. Does Stiles even want to be around you?”

He was granted a ‘duh’ expression. He thought back to all their interactions he’d been present to witness, and then wanted to facepalm. It was so obvious. _Stiles_ was so obvious.

“Okay,” he whispered. “He does. I’m still getting a handle on my…thing.”

Derek was back to his recalcitrant self and levelled him with a pitying look. “Well, I can smell emotions. I don’t know if you…” he paused, searching for the right word. Parrish waved him on, “can as well. Maybe it’s still developing.”

Sometimes he wished that this wasn’t his life.

“Wait—” a horrified sound broke out of him— “you can smell emotions? So, like…”

Across from him, Derek nodded, sadly. “Yes. So, I know of your intentions towa—”

This wasn’t some romance novel of the nineteenth century. He wished his partner was aware of that.

He was so busy trying to construct an answer both sufficient and cutting that he completely failed to notice their superior until he was stood a few feet from their desks.

“Parrish. Hale.” The Sheriff folded his arms. “Working hard, I presume.”

He recalled their conversation for the past ten minutes and flushed. Then realised Derek was sitting near enough to smell—darn cheat—and vainly tried to gather himself.

“Yes, sir. We were just—”

“Sir, have you seen these robberies?” Derek interrupted loudly, turning in his chair to point the Sheriff towards his screen. “It’s normal, I’m sure, but that’s what I don’t get. If it’s so trivial why hasn’t it been wrapped up?”

The Sheriff turned away from him and leaned in to scrutinise Derek’s monitor.

It was stupid—to be so utterly at the mercy of someone. Unhealthy, too. But that’s just how it had always been. In the beginning, God—or whoever, whatever—made him, and subsequently made a heart that skipped a beat randomly and frustratingly. The whole crux of the matter was that—as much as he liked to kid himself—it wasn’t random. And the only frustrating thing was the gulf between that troublesome heart and the person responsible for its falter.

“I guess so,” the Sheriff was saying, and fuck, he was leaning on the desk with his hips cocked, arms strong and braced on the wooden surface. “Parrish—” he looked over at Parrish— “are you up to date on this case?”

“No,” he said truthfully, mind still swimming. “I can be, though, if you want?”

Derek winced in his chair. “Sir,” he said, somewhat desperately, “we’ll figure it out. Isn’t it time for you to clock out?”

The Sheriff glanced at the watch on his left wrist. “Not yet.” He peered between them suspiciously. “What’s Hale doing to you, Parrish? You seem—” his mouth did a complicated twist.

“Nothing. We’re just working.” His voice sounded strangled to his own ears. And he hadn’t banked on how much it physically pained him to lie to the Sheriff. It wasn’t even really lying, but his insides felt like they were being rung out. This was getting alarming.

Derek, meanwhile, was staring at the Sheriff’s back, affronted.

He gave a small smile. “I’ll go over the robberies as soon as I can.”

The Sheriff’s gaze lingered a second too long before he seemingly gathered himself and stepped away.

As if to make a point, Derek turned back to his computer haughtily, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t normal for a conversation to have the power to either hollow him out or rebuild his body entirely. Right now, he was at the curious stage where there were sunbeams in his heart but shadows shrouding his mind.

The feeling of being in the squad car was freeing, even as he drove safely within the speed limit and parked in one of Beacon Hills’ wider-known, lesser-approved-of spots. Internally dreading the task at hand, he afforded himself a few fortifying breaths before taking the keys out of the engine and opening the car door. Patrolling was boring at the best of times but this spot…this was embarrassing. And not just for the couples he was forced to weed out.

Gravel crunched under his feet, stray bits glittering in the filtered moonlight. The make-out spot was an ideal one: cloaked on one side by a thick copse of trees, the cliff edge slightly lowered so as to afford extra privacy.

When he traversed the slight hill and began to descend, he cursed under his breath. There was a car parked. Privately, he didn’t see the allure of making out in a car in some secluded spot. Blame it on his job status, perhaps, but it bordered more on creepy than arousing.

Sighing, he walked up to the driver’s window and thanked every deity that it wasn’t fogged up. “Hello? Anyone in there?” He waited, but he wasn’t going to be fooled. There was definitely at least two people in the car.

After a few beats and the window still hadn’t rolled down, he rapped on the window with his knuckles. “I know you’re in there. It would be best for everyone involved if you just rolled down the window.” He hoped his face wasn’t red.

There came muffled cursing from inside the vehicle before the window rolled down and he almost swallowed his tongue.

“Derek?” He tried to meet his eyes in the faded light.

“Parrish,” said Derek, wincing visibly as someone else valiantly dove under the seat. “Any chance we could, uh—”

Feeling vindictive, Parrish unhooked his flashlight from the belt on his hips and shone it into the Camaro. “Stiles,” he said. “I know you’re in there.”

Stiles emerged, looking dishevelled. “Heyyy Parrish.” He grinned widely, showing too many teeth. “What are you up to this fine evening?”

“Cut the crap.” He wasn’t in a joking mood. He focused his attention on his partner. “So, Hale. On a scale from one to ten how much do you fancy your boss hearing about this?”

Stiles’ voice came out stilted. “What’s one?”

“Least fancy.”

“Minus, like, five hundred, dude.”

Derek shoved him and turned back to Parrish. He cleared his throat. “So. Uh. Remember how we’re partners—”

“I do.”

“—and we look out for each other? This could be that time.”

Stiles had never learnt to shut up. “How did you not hear him, Derek? Why are you such a complete failwolf sometimes?”

“I was a bit busy—” Derek began, then met eye contact with Parrish and promptly swallowed the rest of his sentence. “Parrish, come on. If I ever found yo—”

“Finish that thought,” he said, “I dare you.”

Realising his angle had shifted and he was shining the flashlight straight into Derek’s eyes, he lowered his arm slightly.

“You wouldn’t find me in this position because I am a deputy, and am thus not inclined to illegal activities—”

“ _Illegal_ is bit of a stretch,” said Stiles then hastily inclined his head when Parrish glared at him.

“Derek, do you realise what an uncomfortable position you’ve put me in? I don’t want to write either of you up, but at the same time I have to do my job.”

“Isn’t it the one who owns the car that gets written up?”

Derek shifted to glare at Stiles.

“I’m starting to wish I ejected you,” he said.

Stiles’ eyes softened when they looked at each other.

“No, you don’t, especially because I s—”

“I’ll let you go on a warning,” he interrupted. They both turned to him, surprised. “If you promise not to get caught again.”

“So, when you say ‘get caught’—” Derek clapped a hand over Stiles’ mouth.

His face, when he looked up at Parrish, was full of relief and something else. Fondness.

“Thanks, Parrish. I won’t forget this.”

He switched off the flashlight and replaced it back on his belt. “You’d better not. I’m going back to my car now, and if I don’t see you driving out in the next two minutes, I’m speaking to your father directly, Stiles.”

Smiling slightly at their gushing assent, he traipsed back up the embankment. The colour in his cheeks still hadn’t quite gone down.

By the time he’d opened the driver’s door of the squad car, Derek’s Camaro was in motion. It honked at him as it passed, and he bit back a wild grin at the almost certain knowledge that Stiles had leant on the horn cheekily, only to be slapped away by Derek.

~*~

The Sheriff joins him in the department’s mini-kitchen one day. This is no abnormal occurrence—he shouldn’t be this debilitated from sharing space with his superior, but there he was. And there the Sheriff was, standing next to him and innocently asking him to pass the milk. It felt like something he wanted so badly he could taste it in the back of his mouth.

“Almond?” He asked, eyebrow raised.

Parrish looked up from where he was stirring his coffee unnecessarily roughly. “It tastes nicer.”

The Sheriff placed it back on the counter. “If it’s yours you could’ve just said.”

“I don’t mind you having some. To get a taste of quality.”

“Oh really?” His mouth quirked up at the corner. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprized your opinions lend themselves to milk as well.”

“I—” his mouth fell open. “I really hoped you’d forgotten that.”

There was an awkward moment where the Sheriff muttered something along the lines of ‘I thought it was ____’ and he was left to ponder that ambiguity while maintaining a perfect façade of attentiveness, but not too much attentiveness because that would be strange and unprofessional, and he clearly needed the caffeine in that coffee. He clutched the mug with both hands and offered a neutral smile.

But then there was an undercurrent of contentment that didn’t seem to emanate from either the percolator or the pint of milk, and so he dangerously contemplated the possibility of it being emitted from either of them and scared himself with a haze of maybes and what-ifs.

“See you later,” The Sheriff finally murmured, cupping his mug, and slinging a sunshiney smile in his direction.

He nodded and eventually took a sip of the coffee. Waited (hid) in the kitchen for a little while to gather himself. Strode out a new man with coffee spilling out of its mug with the force of his movement.

“How do feel about getting lunch together again?” The Sheriff asked, which was—honestly—more than he could’ve ever asked for, except they were walking out of the station at half five in the evening.

He peered at him. “Do you mean dinner?” Then he fought the urge to crumble into a million pieces because it sounded like he’d just asked himself on a date. “Or, like, a really late lunch.”

The Sheriff laughed smoothly. “We can call it dinner, I guess. Is it okay if Stiles joins us?”

“Am I barging in on family time?” He asked.

“Not at all. Don’t tell Stiles this, but he’s been clinging to me like a leech. It’ll be nice to have someone to get him off my back.”

Parrish knew just the person, but he wasn’t going to expose Derek to their boss.

“I’ve been meaning to ask Stiles about his bestiary, so sure.”

They’d settled into a booth and ordered by the time Stiles slid in next to Parrish.

“Parrish, hey,” he said. “Can I call you Jordan now that you’re here, and I’m here, and we’re having off the clock fun?”

He paused to think about it. “Sure, since it’s after hours and you’re over eighteen.”

Stiles lit up like a theme park after dark. “Awesome. So, Jordan—”

“Did Graeme get back to you on that one file that was missing?” The Sheriff asked him, leaning back in the booth.

“Yeah. It was labelled incorrectly. I found it behind one of the cabinets—did you know how heavy those were?”

The Sheriff shook his head, eyes twinkling.

“I thought you’d plotted me an impromptu work out session. But it was there. The file. Behind cabinet F.”

Stiles seemingly took pity on him. “Why didn’t you just ask Derek for help? We’re working on being a socially-accepted-wolf.”

His father peered at him. “Spend a lot of time with Hale, do you?”

“Uh,” said Stiles, and this time it was Parrish who jumped to his aid.

“They’re in the same pack. Sort of. Right?”

There was a peculiar fondness in Stiles’ face when Stiles glanced at him. “Yeah. Well, we’re getting there. It’s crazy what beer laced with wolf’s bane will accomplish. Not,” he added hastily, “that I’m partaking in such revelry. It’s more of an abstract concept anyway, rather than _actual_ beer.”

Their food arrived then, and his heart clenched at the proud look Stiles gave the Sheriff when he saw the Caesar salad placed in front of him.

“Thank Jordan,” the Sheriff said, suddenly busy with unfolding his cutlery from his serviette. “He suggested it.”

Stiles looked at him, then, and he resisted the urge to preen—was too busy fighting off the feeling of sinking to his knees at the sound of his first name.

The waiter placed a root beer float on the table, and the Sheriff’s eyes widened. It was a split second and you missed it, but Parrish saw Stiles’ eyes narrow and his mouth open, watched the dread steal across the Sheriff’s face—

“That’s actually mine, sorry,” he said smoothly. The waiter nodded apologetically and slid it in his direction. That left the Sheriff to claim his apple juice.

This turn of events produced a rather comical effect: Stiles paused with his mouth open, the Sheriff desperately reigned in a smile, and Parrish vainly tried to calm the furious beating of his heart.

When he was sure Stiles was occupied with dipping his curly fries into ketchup, the Sheriff knocked their knees together under the table and offered up a warm smile.

He treasured it, collected it like a dragon collects gold and stored it somewhere in the junction between his heart and mind.

They ate and conversed comfortably. It was easier than he’d thought it would be: perhaps because he did know them on a somewhat personal level, or because they made an effort (maybe unconsciously) to include him. It was an organic feeling, like watering seeds in anticipation of crops growing in the near future. That, too, needed plenty of sunlight. And there was an excess here around this little table in the diner.

His phone buzzed against his leg and he reached for it hesitantly, opening the text surreptitiously.

-Can you keep my dad busy for another 30 minutes?

He checked the name at the top of the screen.

-Stiles Stilinski-

Managing to keep his facial expressions to a minimum, he sent a short reply:

-Why?

Beside him in the booth, Stiles made no move to indicate he was texting under the table.

\--Because I need to talk to Derek, and he’ll wonder why we don’t arrive home at the same time

\--And I’m not speaking to Derek over text. You know what he’s like

I’ve already covered for you guys. --

I feel dirty doing that. –

\--it’s like he types with his claws or something

\--dude cmon

\--you’ve still got desert

\--I’ll even make him order something

He sighed and put his phone away, not wanting to be rude. Next to him, Stiles beamed down at his lap.

“I’ve gotta head out,” he announced, already moving out of the booth. “But this was cool.” He winked at Parrish. “We should do this again.”

Parrish rolled his eyes. “Next month. You’ve used up all your allotted time.”

Stiles just grinned and leant to clap his dad on the shoulder. “Bye pops, have at the dessert menu. It can be your reward for the juice and salad.”

The Sheriff frowned at him without any bite to it. “This is what makes turtles desert their young. I’m not even going to ask where you’re heading off to, but—”

“Yeah, yeah, the usual rules apply. No smoking, no drinking et cetera. See ya, Jordan.”

He waved lazily at him, turning to survey the deserts menu.

“I’m guessing you’re getting the fruit salad,” he said, smirking at his boss. Or rather, just a friend. Another person. It didn’t feel like they were at work.

“What do you suggest?”

“Well, because you’ve been so perfectly behaved, maybe ice cream’s on the table.” He peered at the Sheriff. “You like ice cream, don’t you, because of the milkshakes?”

Something was shifting in the Sheriff’s eyes. “Yeah,” he replied eventually, “although I prefer tarts and the like. What’re you getting?”

He hummed. “I don’t know. What do _you_ suggest?”

There was an electricity to the air, like charged particles simply hanging between them, invisible and almost intangible. It made the sunshine brighter—a shining paradox as the sun went down over the town.

He suddenly hoped Stiles would take all the time in the world, or their deserts would take all the time in the world to be prepared, because this feeling would probably take him all of eternity to figure out. Time had never seemed so seductive as it did now, lit up against a backdrop of years and electricity.

He was on shift without Derek, but the appearance of a coven of witches had prompted the werewolf to visit the station and confirm the situation with himself and the Sheriff. Stiles and Scott had arrived too, bundling into the Sheriff’s office with stern expressions firmly plastered on their faces, but underneath the vestiges of twitching excitement.

“They’re peaceful,” Derek announced, crossing his arms, and causing the collar of his Henley to bunch up.

“You guys sent him to confront the witches?” he asked, disbelievingly.

“No, of course not,” said Stiles. “I went too.”

He turned to share a commiserating look with the Sheriff. “What did they say?”

“They just want unrestricted access to the energy flow from the nemeton. But, obviously, we had to say no, becau—”

“It’s on my land,” Derek said. “And nobody in their right mind would leave a bunch of witches to mess with earth magic unsupervised.”

“Yeah,” said Stiles, in a show of support. “And we don’t want to babysit. Long story short, we told them to double, double, toil and trouble somewhere else.”

He and Scott high fived.

“So, you pissed off a coven and _aren’t_ sprouting hair from strange places on your body?” He liked being a deputy, he liked being a deputy, he lik—

Stiles looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “We said it nicely. Gosh, Derek,” he nudged Derek in the ribs, “it’s like they don’t trust us.”

The Sheriff cleared his throat. “Where are they now?”

“In a motel downtown,” Scott answered. “We’ve given them a day to get their stuff together and leave. They’re probably packing up newts’ eyeballs and fangs as we speak.” He shared an excited look with Stiles.

“Newts have fangs?” Derek asked.

The Sheriff moved to open the door. “Well, if you’re sure they won’t be a problem then this meeting is finished. But Hale, keep an eye on them.”

Derek nodded.

Ten minutes later, he opened the door to the records room and promptly wanted to bleach his eyes.

“We’re searching for files,” Stiles said, patting Derek’s shirt back into place. “Honest.”

“Wha—why—no, just. Stiles, get out. You too, Derek. Why are you even in here? It’s so stuffy.”

“We’re not here for the air ventilation,” Stiles said. His hair was tousled, and Parrish desperately averted his eyes.

“I fucking _know_ that,” he snapped. “I was giving you a chance to leave gracefully. I’m going to go stand outside so you can—” he gestured widely— “get yourselves together, then you leave. One minute.”

“One minute, Stiles?” He heard Derek say as he left the room. “That’s more than enough time for you to—”

He bit back a grin at the sound of someone hitting someone.

Leaning against the wall, he took up post outside the room. He wasn’t paid enough for this, he thought. Not that this necessarily came with the job. It _shouldn’t_ come with the job.

The sound of footsteps nearing was panicking, to say the least.

“Derek,” he hissed, pushing off the wall and standing in front of the door, “hurry up.”

“It’s only been, like, thirty seconds,” Stiles replied, a tad too cheekily for someone about to be busted half undressed.

By his dad.

“Derek,” he hissed again, frantically, “Stiles! It’s the Sheriff. Get out, get out.”

“Parrish?” The Sheriff said amiably. “Are you okay?” He moved closer, body graceful and sturdy in its motion. Parrish felt his heart in his throat for a split second before he swallowed.

“Uh, hello, _Sheriff_ ,” he said loudly.

There was a muffled bump behind the door, and he grinned furiously. The Sheriff stared at him quizzically, head tilting to the side like a puppy.

“Did you need something, sir?”

A hand slowly gestured to the door he was barring, then dropped. “A file. For the Williamson case.”

He stopped grinning, because it made him feel like a fool, and the last person he wanted to look like a fool in front of was yours truly.

“I’ll get it for you. Why don’t you go back to your office—I’m sure you have a lot to get through. I’ll just be a minute.”

“It’s fine, Parrish.” The Sheriff smiled softly at him. “I’m already here, so…” When he made no move to stand aside, the Sheriff sighed and let his hands fall to his side. “Well, if you’re determined. It’ll probably be under Accidents.”

Parrish nodded quickly. He watched him leave.

When the Sheriff turned at the end of the corridor and disappeared, he wrenched the door to the records room and scowled heatedly at the occupants.

“Get out,” he said, words whip-sharp and cutting.

Stiles and Derek fled, Stiles throwing him profuse apologies over his shoulder.

He wasn’t angry so much as upset with himself. With the way he was presenting himself to somebody whose opinion he cared deeply about. It wasn’t like Stiles and Derek who had each other, and thus could behave however they wanted and still be accepted. He didn’t have his someone like that.

~*~

He sees the Sheriff standing by the entrance to the carnival. It’s dark by now, the atmosphere lit by excitement and glowing LED lights. The carnival had set up camp for a week, enticing Beacon Hills’ population with its twinkling exterior and numerous stalls.

“Sir,” he said by way of greeting. The Sheriff peered at him in the low light, hands resting on his belt.

“Deputy,” he nodded. “Enjoying the carnival?”

Parrish snorted. “I’m on duty. I can’t even have candyfloss.”

His superior chuckled. “I’m sure you could sneak a mouthful of candyfloss.” He leant closer, closing the gap between them. “I have, anyway,” he whispered.

Parrish laughed and wished they could stay in that position, that they didn’t have to move apart. His insides felt like solar panels.

“Sir,” he said, “can I ask you a question?”

The Sheriff raised an eyebrow but otherwise remained silent. He took that as an invitation.

“Are you actually patrolling?”

He chuckled deeply, looking pleased—for what reason, Parrish didn’t know. “That is rich coming from you, deputy. Don’t think I didn’t notice you standing in the same spot for half an hour.”

“I was surveying!” he protested. “I even had a vantage point.”

The Sheriff’s eyes were twinkling as much as the lights on the stalls behind him—he was so sure they were. If anything, it was the lights themselves that bridged the gap between each of their bodies. Swallowed the gulf and spit it out in short little infinities, each complete and manageable and so, so bright. He could deal with infinities.

“I finish in twenty minutes,” he heard himself saying. “Would you like to walk around then?” The darkness was the only reason he asked at all.

A few beats of silence passed, and then the Sheriff was making a noise of assent. “I’ll meet you here.”

“—because you won’t be moving?”

“Parrish, go before I change my mind.”

They walked alongside each other, occasionally pushed together by the crowd. Everything felt electric: an undercurrent of excitement and elation in the kinesis of the fairground.

It would be so easy to just reach out with his hand, curl their fingers together. He forced his traitorous body to remain tightly under control. That was a nightmare waiting to happen.

“You’re good at that,” the Sheriff remarked. They were pulling away from the coconut shy where he’d been bet he couldn’t knock one tin over. Okay, it wasn’t a _bet_ , the Sheriff had just suggested it with that smile of his.

He’d hit three.

Pretending he had something in his eye, he turned away and furiously worked on smoothing his facial expression.

“I’ve always had good motor skills.” He looked back at him. “Have to, with the whole bomb disposal thing.”

The Sheriff looked off somewhere, like he was faraway in his thoughts. “I always forget you were trained in Explosive Ordnance Disposal. That section of your life feels so separate to now.”

He refused to dwell too deeply on what that might mean.

“It’s steady hands, really,” he allowed. “And depth precision. And a kind of inner-calmness.”

The Sheriff chuckled. “Do you miss that kind of work?”

From anyone else it might’ve been a stupid question, but it was different coming from him.

Parrish was silent for a few moments. “I don’t know.” He was reminded of how much it had taken to force his hands to still. “The training, maybe. Not anything else.”

It felt like too much of an admission. Like he was using those steady hands of his to bear himself open and vulnerable, showing the Sheriff exactly why he preferred _now_ to _then_.

They stopped by a hotdog stand. In their uniforms they appeared a little conspicuous, or maybe that was just him, wanting this little infinity to be private and only theirs.

“Mustard?” The Sheriff turned to him momentarily.

He wrinkled his nose.

The Sheriff just huffed out a chuckle. “Should’ve known. Can I at least get some?”

He realised he was being teased—and the delight that zinged down his spine wasn’t entirely healthy. “Only if it isn’t that processed kind.”

They regarded the bright yellow plastic bottle.

“I’ll give it a pass,” the Sheriff said. The corner of his mouth was almost constantly curled up, and Parrish felt insanely proud of that detail.

They were searching for somewhere to sit when they bumped into Derek.

“Hale,” the Sheriff greeted neutrally. “Have you tried the hotdogs?”

Derek glanced at Parrish out of the corner of his eye.

“Not yet,” he replied. “Good?”

“You can finish this one,” Parrish said, giving it to him without preamble. Anything to get rid of him.

Derek accepted it unsuspectingly, but the glitter in his eyes when they made eye contact made him want to crumble into the ground.

“Having fun, Jordan?” He asked, and Parrish wanted to smack the smirk off his face.

Then Stiles appeared around the corner huffing crossly, and the smirk slid clean off Derek’s face anyway.

“You can’t just walk off, Derek. You’re a petwolf now—woah, uh, hi dad.” He offered his father a hesitant grin that was equal parts teeth and terror. “I didn’t know were here.”

“Clearly,” the Sheriff said, but there was no bite to his words. “You can stop tiptoeing around me, Stiles. I know you’re dating Hale.”

“Who told you?” Parrish asked, not thinking. He realised his mistake a little too late. “And, uh, why didn’t they tell me? I can’t believe I was kept in the dark for so long—”

“You can stop as well,” the Sheriff told him. There was a note of something in his voice, but he couldn’t place it. Apparently, Stiles could.

“So, you’re off-duty, dad?” Derek shifted at the sudden gleam in Stiles’ eyes, seemingly well-versed in Stiles-speak.

The Sheriff nodded, somewhat hesitantly.

“That’s interesting. Do you often spend time with your deputies?” Derek moved away, as if mentally distancing himself from Stiles. “That’s really sweet. Strauss was asking the other day for some one-on-one time, so you should let him know when you’re free. Pencil him into your diary.”

There was a challenging lilt to his voice that, while not spiteful, was strangely vehement.

He decided to join Derek and step a few feet away. Derek, feeling grievously overconfident now that the Sheriff’s attention was focused elsewhere, mimed eating popcorn. It was so stupidly out of character that he let out a huff of laughter, then caught himself and sent him a scowl.

“Get your boyfriend under control,” he hissed.

Derek simply looked at him. “You’re just mad we’ve interrupted your d—”

He stared at him pleadingly.

“They need to talk about it at some point.” He gestured to the Stilinskis who were both doing something with their arms: The Sheriff had his crossed while Stiles’ were flinging about dangerously. “This is a good thing.”

“How exactly, Derek?”

“You’re going to be invited around more often. If the Sheriff is focused on you at dinner, then we escape twenty questions. Win-win.” This was all explained nonchalantly, almost dismissively.

“I never thought you were so devious,” he whispered.

Derek smirked.

“Hale!” the Sheriff called suddenly. “You’re coming ‘round for dinner tomorrow. Parrish too.”

“I’m working late,” Parrish said. Eight was late.

“You can come after. We’ll keep your plate warm,” Stiles said. He reached out and Derek was by his side instantly, a steady line of heat pressing in snugly.

He opened the door to his car and got inside heavily. The lights from inside the station didn’t reach him, so he sat in the dark for a bit, gathered his thoughts. They’d had an accident today—a driver had lost control of the car and rammed into a tree. Faulty brakes. No fatalities.

He still couldn’t stop thinking about it, though. It was easy to substitute himself into those situations, difficult to continue moving after.

The Stilinskis were expecting him for dinner. Letting out a weighty breath, he slumped over the steering wheel. Normally he’d be jumping at the chance to just co-exist with the Sheriff. But this feeling, boring into his mind, taking over his system, was awful and numbing and he didn’t want anyone to see him like this. Least of all the Sheriff. Or maybe most of all. Did he still want to see the Sheriff? The answer was bright and frightening.

Slipping the key in the ignition, he headed home. Somewhere bright. Or somewhere dark. He didn’t know. He just knew that it could’ve been him earlier that day and driving now felt like a scathing disrespect to the universe.

Once home, he showered quickly, considered sending a text begging dinner being postponed. It wasn’t like he felt like eating anyway. But that was rude (and he was never rude to the Sheriff.)

Slowly, he walked up the Stilinskis’ drive. They had freshly mown grass lining the gravel, like a tailored path leading to his demise. Because he would die if he got one of those smiles. Or maybe he wouldn’t.

Stiles opened the door.

“Thank fuck you’re here,” he said. “You were supposed to alleviate the grilling Derek received.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I could go.”

Stiles peered at him then. “Just get inside. Dad’ll get grumpy if you don’t show up.”

“What was for dinner?” He asked, following Stiles into the kitchen.

Reaching for a pair of oven mitts, Stiles got a plate out of the oven. “Lasagne. That okay?”

He nodded, not sure what to do with himself. The kitchen was kind of empty, he thought, then realised.

“Where’s the others?”

“Outside.” Stiles winced. “They’re having a ‘talk’.” He dished a decent sized portion onto the plate and handed it to Parrish. He looked a little pale, which made Parrish want to promise the world, or just Derek, because clearly Derek _was_ his world, and he’d underestimated how much they actually cared for each other.

“Hey, Stiles,” he put the plate on the kitchen table and patted Stiles on the shoulder, “it’ll be fine. Your dad likes Derek. He wouldn’t have let him into the house if he didn’t.”

“Derek came through the window,” Stiles muttered.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Anyway, what I was trying to say was that you don’t have to worry. You too, Derek. I know you’re listening. I know it seems like I don’t particularly support your relationship, but I do. Could do less with the constantly walking in on you, but.”

He didn’t expect Stiles to hug him.

“I can see why my dad likes you,” Stiles said, but it was muffled, and his food was getting cold, so the hug ended after a couple seconds, each body stepping back and regrouping.

He decided to lean against the counter and eat. It was good. The kitchen light was bright, like that of the light above an operating table, and it was refreshing in more ways than one. Incandescent, and he needed incandescent—it chased away all thoughts of the day’s events.

Eventually the backdoor opened and the Sheriff entered the kitchen. Derek followed closely behind. They were both smiling—or very close to smiling—and he shared a significant look with Stiles.

“Any tears shed, Hale?”

Derek glanced at him and shook his head. He moved to Stiles and slid an arm around his shoulders. “We’re all good.”

The Sheriff smiled openly at him, then turned to Parrish. “How are you doing?” There was an unvoiced question underlying the first—a kind way of surreptitiously measuring his feelings.

“Okay thanks, sir. A little shaken from the crash earlier, but I’m fine.” He suddenly felt awkward and addressed Stiles. “The lasagne was great, thank you. Did it take long?”

Stiles shook his head. “I’ve done the recipe loads of times, so it’s basically muscle memory at this point.”

It was difficult, he thought, to pretend when he didn’t feel like it. Because it would be so easy—so ridiculously easy—for it to be real. They were halfway there already. But flying was nowhere near as attractive with the risk of falling. Or maybe it made it more seductive. He didn’t know; he was tired.

They migrated to the living room, and Stiles switched the television channel to something bland and generic, something that everyone had something to say about. It was a lot of somethings coming together to create what they all were in that exact moment. A little infinity of their own.

And then it happened. Stiles was filling the silence as he always did, rambling about something or other on the list they’d constructed for themselves, when he accidently let slip that he was studying witchcraft alongside his course at college.

The Sheriff was—perhaps suitably—sceptic.

“It’s not dangerous, dad,” Stiles argued. “Not if it’s done properly. And it would be so helpful to the pack if one of us could use magic. It just happens to be more who more of a proclivity for a spark.”

That didn’t appease the Sheriff. “So, instead of talking it through with me you just went ahead and started messing with the occult? I thought we spoke about that.”

Stiles was getting worked up. “It’s perfectly fine. I have a good teacher and it’s super interesting. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be like this. The witches even predicted it, which i—”

“The witches?!” the Sheriff interrupted; his voice terrible. Parrish wanted to shrink away from it into the Stilinskis’ upholstery. “These wouldn’t happen to be the witches staying in the motel downtown, would they? Yes,” he continued, at Stiles’ silence, “I know about that. The whole point of having the sheriff of Beacon Hills informed about the supernatural is to stop awful things from happening. And I can’t help if you deliberately keep things from me.”

He sounded tired…and hurt, Parrish realised, and he wanted to rub his shoulders, loosen the tension pulling them taught.

“Well, I’m sorry we didn’t tell you, but you don’t actually know everything about the supernatural. Sometimes it wouldn’t _help_ you knowing.”

He was going to stand and leave the room, the house, because it wasn’t his place to stay or say anything. He wasn’t family.

But then he heard Stiles’ reply and, while he recognised how frustrated Stiles was, probably would’ve felt the same way if they’d switched positions, he wanted to stop them both before it escalated. Because that was such a cruel thing to say—and he knew Stiles wasn’t a cruel person, so he possibly hadn’t realised the weight behind his words—and he couldn’t bear someone saying that to the Sheriff, who endlessly tried to save people day in and day out, so those words would cut him to his core.

“Stiles,” he cut in sharply, “don’t. Just—take a breather. And sir, I know it’s not my place—” his heart stuttered in his chest— “but Stiles is an _adult_. He should’ve come to you, but at the end of the day were you ever really expecting him to?”

The Sheriff closed his eyes, then opened them again. Slowly, painfully.

“You know him. He’s fiercely independent. Don’t try and curb that by force. The outcome is never pretty, and I know that that is the absolute last thing either of you want. So—just, I don’t know. Take some time to get back into your heads and then _speak to each other_.”

Across the room, Derek was rubbing up Stiles’ arms soothingly. He caught Parrish’s gaze and nodded, almost imperceptibly, but it was the show of support he needed before he passed out in the middle of the living room.

“How about we go for a drive?” Derek said to Stiles. “Then we can come back to this conversation from a different angle.”

He was too afraid to look in the Sheriff’s direction. Was frightened of what he’d see.

By the time Derek had bundled a shell-shocked Stiles through the front door, the silence was beginning to itch with the way it had settled like a second layer of skin.

Arguments were a bit like a scab—they might be fun to pick at in the moment, but afterwards it was painful: and sometimes the bleeding refused to stop. Nothing good ever came from picking a scab. If distressed enough, it would leave a scar.

He really didn’t want this to be the beginning of a scar.

So, powered by some invisible, unknown source of confidence, he sank down onto the couch beside the Sheriff and pulled him into his arms. The Sheriff went easily, full-blown shudders wracking his body.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re doing the best you can. I wouldn’t have known what to do, either.”

He wondered how often these arguments had occurred, with Stiles eventually escaping into the comfort of one of his friends or Derek, and the Sheriff being left to fall apart alone.

It felt strange to refer to him as the Sheriff when he was huddled into his shoulder, but he hadn’t been given permission to use anything else. That hurt too. They were so close but still that gulf was between them. Infinities did little in the way of making his feelings manageable when they piled on top of each other and blocked out the sun.

Finally, the Sheriff shifted to sit on the couch beside him, saying, “Thank you, Jordan,” quietly, subdued.

“It’s okay—” he must have paused for a beat too long because the Sheriff supplied a “John,” carefully and softly— “I needed a hug as well. Today was a bit rough.” They were such simple words, but it was hard to say them. The gift he’d just been given—the name—was reward enough.

“I’m—I’m so sorry, Jordan,” he ran a heavy hand through his hair, “this wasn’t fair on you at all. Or Derek, god, I need to apologise to him. And Stiles. I should apologise to Stiles the most.”

“Let him stew in his guilt for a bit,” Parrish said, and John looked at him, surprized.

“He was unnecessarily harsh. Derek will wring him out for you.”

John’s face continued to hold onto that surprized expression, as if he was startled that they even cared.

“Derek cares for Stiles. But he also deeply respects you.” He pulled his knees up to his chest to act as a support. “Stiles will be begging for your forgiveness before the night’s out. As,” he glanced over at John, internally stunned by his gall, “will you, right? Stiles is only trying to grow up.”

“I know. It’s—frightening. I was too defensive, wasn’t I?”

“A bit,” he admitted. “It’s okay.”

And it was.

By the time Jordan climbed into his bed later that night, Stiles had re-joined his dad in the living room for a tearful reunion and a second attempt at patching things up between them. Derek and himself made themselves scarce.

~*~

Ever since that evening he’d been over to the Stilinskis for dinner, both father and son had been more forthcoming with him. Not extremely visibly, but they spoke to him more often, couldn’t seem to leave him alone, spent more time with him outside the station.

It was because he was seeing the Sheriff apart from the work sphere that he could even fathom calling him John. It felt like a breakthrough—a bridge over the rapidly shrinking gulf between them.

Maybe he was giving himself too much credit. Maybe they’d always been like this, and he was getting ahead of himself. Either way, the potential for such things had always been lying dormant within them, between them, and it should’ve been more than he could ever ask for. It _was_ more than he could ever ask for. But the heart is a tricky thing. Once given a little, it gets addicted. He was addicted to the sunbeams around John Stilinski.

Perhaps if he’d slowed, stopped to think, it would be obvious. But he just allowed himself to fall into the sunbeams, forgetting that as much as they were warm, they were fiercely burning.

Because it couldn’t be so one-sided, not with the attraction flinging them together into orbit. But he failed to notice how fiery warm the twinkle in John’s eyes were when he let himself into the Sheriff’s office. Or how when they walked side-by-side, it was with a few centimetres of space between them.

It had to have been the sunlight blinding him, to miss the instant way they relaxed around each other. There was a lot of sunlight—an equally organic sibling to the kind that streamed about his desk in the mornings.

“Are you going?” Stiles asked, surprized.

He paused, unsure of the situation. “Yes? My shift’s over.”

“But,” Stiles floundered, hands twitching by his sides, “we haven’t spent much time together today! I’m going back to college in a week.”

He huffed out, disbelievingly. “You have my number. Which, by the way, I didn’t give you.”

“I got it out of Derek’s phone,” Stiles answered, shamelessly. “I came down here to talk to you, specially, and now you’re just leaving?”

He stared at him. “I never realised how clingy you are. Go bother your dad.”

“Can’t. He told me the next time I entered his office without good reason he’d handcuff me to the desk again.”

Frowning absently, he shook his head slightly, pushing away any sudden questions relating to ‘again’.

Stiles was grinning suddenly. “Although I bet you wouldn’t mind the handc—”

He smoothly collected his stuff and slid out from behind his desk. “Going now.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Stiles whined. “Can we get dinner?”

He ignored him, crossing the station, and sticking his head into the Sheriff’s office. “Sir?”

The Sheriff looked up from the paperwork in front of him. The instant warmth on his face made Parrish’s knees want to give out. “Yes, deputy?”

Stiles had followed closely behind and bumped into him now. He shifted in the doorway so there was room for them both to stand side-by-side. “Control your son so I can leave peacefully?”

The Sheriff chuckled. “Stiles leave him alone. Don’t you have one of your friends to bother?”

Stiles pouted. “They’re all busy. And I want to spend time with _Jordan_.”

“When do you finish, sir?” Parrish turned to him.

“An hour, why?”

“Okay, Stiles come on.” He moved out of the doorway. “We’ll be back in an hour with takeout.”

If this had been a comic book, there would be hearts in Stiles’ eyes. “Can we get Chinese? Actually, wait, do you like Chinese? I don’t know _anyone_ who doesn’t like Chi—”

Him and the Sheriff shared a commiserating look.

“Yeah, we can get Chinese. Come on, I want to get out of this uniform.”

“We’re going to your _house?_ ” Stiles gasped, as if he hadn’t been ‘round twice in the past two weeks.

He was almost done with pretending, so he didn’t even try to hide his fond grin.

If he’d bothered to tilt his head just so, he would’ve witnessed the awestruck expression threatening to drown the Sheriff.

Sunshine and electricity.

He didn’t know why they ended up at the Stilinskis’ house. He’d planned on eating in the Sheriff’s office.

“For f—” John reached over and wiped the table with a napkin. “Stiles, just use a knife and fork.”

Stiles stubbornly refused to put the chopsticks down. He’d dropped two pieces of chicken and ten noodles. Jordan had counted.

“You’ve dropped two pieces of chicken and ten noodles,” he said archly.

Stiles stared sadly at his carton of noodles. “How are you doing it so well?”

“Steady hands and precise depth precision,” John interjected, with a quick grin.

Jordan smirked at Stiles. “Exactly.” He twirled his chopsticks expertly.

Stiles looked between them, but when it became obvious no one was going to divulge the inside joke any time soon, he huffed and accepted the cutlery.

It was so easy here. Like this. But there was an undercurrent of something thrumming steadily—if he wasn’t mistaken. He really hoped he wasn’t mistaken. This little infinity finally felt manageable, and he felt ready. Had fallen so deeply into this bright pocket of space and time. He wanted to grasp onto the infinity and clutch it tightly, make it their own at last.

But they’d finished their meal, and Stiles still hadn’t gotten the hint. He’d tried catching his eye to communicate nonverbally—in the nicest way possible—to go the fuck away. Nothing had happened so far. It wasn’t that he was afraid the simmering electricity would burn out; he knew it wouldn’t. But he was restless. Was too impatient to wait any longer.

Then he had a sudden stroke of inspiration and smirked internally. Digging into his pocket he pulled his phone out and typed a text to Derek.

\--Come get your boyfriend

\--or he’ll be mentally scarred in the next five minutes

It was testament to their friendship that Derek instinctively knew what he meant, and where they were, because he showed up at the house in two minutes.

Stiles was overjoyed to see him and made grabby hands.

“Derek! Come sit. I’ve still got some noodles left. They’re a bit cold, but—”

After a smirk at Jordan and a nod at John, Derek seized Stiles by the collar of his shirt and dragged him out of the house.

When they were left alone in the living room, John turned to him, eyebrow raised.

“He owed me a favour,” Jordan said, shrugging.

John was still staring at him, drinking in the sight of them in the same room without any barriers. Without any gulfs.

“I think it’s time,” he continued, softly, “don’t you?”

“You’re okay with this?”

“If you are.”

The smile they shared was private and warm.

It was a different kind of sunshine, laced with the brightness of possibility—inevitability—and years upon years.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :))
> 
> Please leave a comment/kudos! I appreciate all feedback.


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